


O'er This Hallowed Ground

by ASimpleArchivist



Series: Before Dawn's First Light [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AKA my OCs, Attempt at Humor, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Ballroom Dancing, Celebrations, Coitus Interruptus, Corypheus (Dragon Age) is Dead, Embarrassment, F/M, Flirting, Implied Sexual Content, Intoxication, Journey to Skyhold (Mentioned), MGiT, Mages (Dragon Age), Mead and Wine, Mild Sexual Content, Modern Girl in Thedas, Observations of Side Characters, POV Outsider, Post-Breach, Post-Canon, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Satinalia (Dragon Age), Secret Marriage, Sexual Tension, Skyhold (Dragon Age), Takes place about a year after Haven, Teasing, Templars (Dragon Age), The Arbor Wilds (Dragon Age), The Destruction of Haven, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Winter, and they know more than any one member of the circle gives them credit for, in more than one way, never a day goes by in Skyhold without a little bit of chaos, the Inquisition is held together by its people, they get a good laugh out of it if nothing else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28353690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASimpleArchivist/pseuds/ASimpleArchivist
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that when a door is a-rocking, that one must never come a-knocking.The Commander and the Inquisitor never got that memo.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Reader, Cullen Rutherford/You, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Before Dawn's First Light [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076438
Kudos: 11





	O'er This Hallowed Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, a day late, a labor of love I've been whittling away at for a few months now. I had intended to publish a few chapters by now, but I'm experiencing a bit of a block at the moment so I thought I should at least give y'all something to tide you over for a while longer. This is sixteen pages of what originally was going to be a simple scene in the main story but developed into its own (lengthy) oneshot. I wanted to showcase the reader and Cullen's relationship from a different angle. I also wanted to make it funny. I tried.  
> Seeing as I am trying a different writing strategy by writing scenes as they come to me, I have developed these two characters in a future chapter focusing on mage/templar tensions and how the reader will deal with them, as a way to showcase how their relationships change with working together under the Inquisition. (And who doesn't love the mage/templar romance trope? C;)  
> Everyone stay safe, happy, and healthy this holiday season - and pray this next year will be better than this one.

**Codex Entry: Crumpled Love Note**

_ “…and o’er this hallowed ground we lay our bed, _

_ of moss and fern and willow branch, _

_ to writhe ‘neath Satinalia’s light she bled; _

_ for you, golden lion, my limbs are spread _

_ to s’fuse my warmth, your flesh a-blanch.” _

  * Found abandoned in a small corner of Skyhold’s garden. The words are written in a delicate, flowing script that seems to have desired anonymity, the ink smeared and paper damp from the dew. It likely never found its recipient.



* * *

The whole of Skyhold was alight and noisy with merriment and delight, ignorant to the blisteringly cold wind and snow battering at its fortified walls with foreboding wails of frustration. All that was heard was the music brimming from the great hall, spilling out over the upper balcony overlooking the throngs and clusters of people, echoing off the walls and doubling back on its own harmonies to swell and recede as the tide according to the whims of its players. The sconces and columned luminaries cast a warm orange glow upon everything and everyone within, warming the air amid the milling bodies - it carried the perfumes and colognes farther, tickling the nose, but the scent of food and spirits were much more absolute. The majority of people lined the walls and sat at the long tables lavishly decorated, making room for the daring few who asked others to dance in such a comparatively narrow space.

While the main hall and the garden were occupied primarily by the visiting nobility and diplomats of nearly every nation in Thedas and those of Skyhold most politically inclined by rank, the lower courtyards were as equally vibrant in their celebration, a carefree cacophony that welled up from the great doors standing open to let in the fresh, bracing air. Little bands composed of every sort happening to know how to play sat in the corners, hawing jigs to accompany the bouncing, stumbling dances of those inebriated enough to forego the bonfire’s reach. The Hanged Man stood bright and loud, barely able to contain its brood of people attempting to stave off the chill the rest ignored. All manner of people congregated there in direct response to the party above them: soldiers, scouts, laborers, servants, templars, and mages chattered and laughed in throngs, equals in their joy. Children ran about in play, squealing, as their parents let them with fond expressions, knowing they were safe.

That was where Ser Rachael Acker wished she could be, instead of stuck in the same spot she’d been pointed to before the sun had even descended. She stood tall and straight against the door leading to the war room, nearest the throne save the undercroft and the Inquisitor’s quarters - that duty was saved for one of the highest-ranking templars of the Order housed in Skyhold, one of Knight-Commander Barris’ captains. The older, taller woman, decked out in her formal regalia of crimson and gold silks and shining silverite plate (a distinct nod to their shared Fereldan heritage, Rachael was certain), had hardly spoken a word all evening, save for placing Barris’ selection of templars at their designated postings about the fortress. Rachael had been given the (uncertain) honor of guarding the ambassador’s office, and thus the war room and the stairwell that led to the bowels of the hold, against any spies or thieves - though it seemed that she turned away more drunken men and women seeking out a chamberpot than anything else.

At first, she had been quite pleased, both with herself and Barris’ faith in her abilities. Now she was hungry, thirsty, sweaty, and tired, weighed down by her own set of upper plate. She was fortunate enough to be wearing mail on her legs beneath the thick skirts hanging low on her ankles, likely in anticipation of any sudden movements that may need be made, but her shoulders ached under the weight of her pauldrons, helmet, and the weapon strapped to her back. She’d been dazzled by the brilliance of wealth boasted of by way of luxurious clothing and priceless accessories, gilded masks by the Orlesian attendants, fine furs stitched to the forms of those Fereldan - now the mixed, beguiling scents, cloying and potent, were giving her a headache.

“Mead for you, serrah?” a petite elven servant offered as she paused in front of the templar with a tray of banded wooden mugs. Her eyes were understanding in the flickering firelight.

Rachael bit her lip, allowing herself to look uncertain within the safety of her helmet. She glanced sidelong through the visor towards the knight-captain, who had fixed her resolute gaze upon the drunken passel of men loitering around the door to the undercroft with raucous laughter. Rachael’s dry tongue coaxed her into accepting the mug with a quiet murmur of gratitude, removing the face-shield to smile at the elf. She beamed in return before slipping back into the crowd. There were several manservants bringing fresh trays piled to the brim with food to the table off to her right, and her stomach gurgled in malcontent when she saw the tender slices of roast drizzled with gravy.

She sipped the warm, apple-flavored mead with a glower, frustrated.

“It would seem your enthusiasm has run dry after all,  _ serrah _ .”

The last word was uttered with sarcasm so dripping that she could recognize it in her sleep - it was only the voice speaking from directly behind her that startled her so. She turned to see her mage charge leaning in the narrow doorway, swirling a sparkling crystal wine glass that looked suspiciously like one that had been placed at the table designated to the queen of Ferelden and her entourage. She opened her mouth to retort but found that the sight of him was too appealing to interrupt.

Swathed in layers of cerulean and violet and accented with crimson and pearlescent white, the enchanter’s robes did Sigmund Lochlane too much damn good, hugging his broadened shoulders and narrow waist. The high collar made the column of his neck stand out against the deep blue, his arms straining against the confines of the long, billowing sleeves. His gloves were stuffed under the belt hanging low on his hips. He looked quite content, gazing at her, eye-level despite slouching against the cold stone archway.

She had forgotten that he had grown so much the past year - he wasn’t a physical match for her by any means, still a leaner frame than her own sturdy, muscled one, but he could certainly hold his own thanks to the training he and other mages desirous to be included on the field had received from the combined efforts of the Inquisitor, Commander Rutherford, and the cooperation between Knight-Commander Barris and Grand Enchantress Fiona. He was much stronger than he’d been when the Inquisition had first arrived in Skyhold, limping after Haven, seemingly so long ago - but it had only been about a year, having passed in the blink of an eye amidst the chaos the Breach had caused. He had been among the many mages eager to prove themselves to the Inquisitor after her mercy in bringing them under the auspice of her wing, wanting to dedicate their lives and abilities to the betterment of her army and relief forces and to prove to the rest of Thedas that mages could be trusted, helpful,  _ necessary _ even, and not something to be feared or shoved into a dark tower to be hidden for the rest of their days. Some desired to be field healers to assist the forces and those in need, while others like Sigmund had more elemental inclinations. Paired up as they were, she had watched him flourish with the hope and satisfaction of knowing he belonged and performed good works for the world.

The arrangement had paved the way for templar-mage relations, truly, as the Inquisitor had seen it as an opportunity to bridge the gap between both groups and to try to heal the past hurts by having them find ways to cooperate towards common goals together. It started out as small as defending villages from pillagers, to assisting the forward camps on the outskirts of the Inquisition’s reach, to aiding in your battles against the Elder One. The Venatori and red templars, barely tolerant of each other, had been wholly unprepared for the tight-knit battalions of mages and templars alike, trained to fight in sync as a punishing, unstoppable force when combined.

Sigmund had stayed glued to her side during the push in the Arbor Wilds, near the front lines with the commander and his most experienced men staving off wave upon wave of demons and abominations and monsters. She remembered the stench of blood and ichor and skewered bowels, the sting of sweat in her eyes, the burn of the red lyrium crawling under her skin in its eerie, wailing song, the humidity of Sigmund’s frost-laced spells melting in the hot air settling heavily in her lungs. He’d maintained a barrier over her the entire time, and had been, unbeknownst to her, on the verge of collapse when the Inquisitor and your inner circle had finally reached them. They’d both received a bolstering by First Enchanter Vivienne, who had nodded to them with an almost pleased smile, and had received praise and encouragement from Seeker Pentaghast as she’d hurried past.

To watch you leap into action alongside the commander they’d followed unquestionably with hesitant, fearful hearts, armor blazing in the sun and war cry loud and jubilant as you’d fought at his back effortlessly, cleaving through the foes that had begun to push against him, had been a blessing of strength from the Maker’s bride like no other. She’d fought well into twilight, only stopping when the Elder One’s forces had retreated with his archdemon and the commander had called for fresh soldiers to help him spearhead the temple. She’d heard rumors, after waking from an almost catatonic sleep well into the next day, that the commander had left for Skyhold without eating or resting to ensure the Inquisitor’s assured, mysterious return ahead of the rest of her forces.

Not long after that, on their slow, creeping return journey, word of Corypheus being defeated had reached them on harried, wearied wings as a sudden but welcome shock - you had taken him and his archdemon pet down and had sealed the Breach alongside your inner circle, forced to take action as he had made one final push. Rachael remembered hiding her tears with her helmet, clutching to Sigmund’s hand hidden by the marching masses around them. She remembered him squeezing hers so tightly she had been grateful for the silverite gauntlets protecting her fingers from the frost seeping into the metal rather than her flesh.

Tonight, the whole of Skyhold was celebrating Satinalia for a different reason than the previous year - then, it had been for the Maker’s blessing of finding a home and for saving the lot of them from the destruction of Haven, an attempt to find joy after such a tragedy; now, it was for the restoration of both the sky and peace all over Thedas only a few months prior. The sheer amount of nobles attending at the lady ambassador’s invitation of goodwill had required the commander to delegate Ser Barris to select out an honor guard to escort them around and keep them away from Skyhold’s more secretive, intimate rooms (and to keep them from getting into drunken brawls, as she had witnessed one of her cohorts escort an absolutely sozzled dignitary from Antiva spewing curses towards anyone wearing the color violet out of the main hall within plain earshot of Queen Anora, who had been swathed in silken shades ranging from lavender to mulberry). Rachael expected, casting a discrete glance towards the great doors, her relief to arrive soon, as it was close to seven bells according to the time sconces mounted on the wall next to her.

“Have you eaten?” she asked, turning her gaze back to the ballroom to at least appear attentive. Her awareness was focused solely on her observer, however.

Her mage seemed quite content to keep nursing the Orlesian red, likely more expensive than half a year’s worth of her pay, as he watched the skirts and cloaks intermingle. A little less than half of it was gone already, and Rachael found herself hoping intensely that he’d had the foresight to eat something beforehand. She could smell it standing nearly three feet away.

“I thought it more tactful to await my partner being released,” he responded simply, and the decidedly rosy flush to his cheeks told her it was a firm no. “You certainly haven’t, the way you were frothing at the mouth.”

“I will be relieved in a few minutes,” she told him, hoping the knight-captain wouldn’t catch her taking a heavy swig of the warm, heady drink to soothe the malcontented noises of her empty stomach. She tilted her head, squinting through the faces. I have seen the queen, but have you yet to see the empress? Could she not attend?”

“I heard she sent Gaspard in her stead, as she had delegations to attend to,” he answered wryly. “Probably wanted him out of her hair for a while. Apparently, he really likes parties when they’re not teetering on the edge of him taking over a country.”

“With less of the Game,” she grumbled into her mead.

He hummed in agreement.

She gave him a side-long glance. “Where’d you get that wine, anyway? It smells like sword polish.”

“That Tevine mage?” he prompted, and she nodded when a vaguely familiar face associated with the Inquisitor stirred in the back of her mind. “He tried hiding a bottle under his seat. He got up to accost the Qunari, and I elected to take it since he seemed to have had enough.”

Rachael’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t...where’s the rest of it?”

He brandished his swirling glass in reply.

She scoffed. “You’ll have need for elfroot in the morning, frost-for-brains.”

“I’ll -  _ hurk! _ \- be fine.”

The punctuated hiccup did him no favors. She knew Sigmund was less accustomed to the humors of liquor than she, and she recognized the faint glaze over his eyes as well as the color flushing his ears and neck. She’d likely have to carry him back to the mage tower once the night was done.

Rachael looked up towards the throne just as a lean little man stepped past the knight-captain, nodding to her with sweat dotting his brow as he tugged anxiously at the neckline of his formal uniform.  _ James, _ she recalled somewhere in the back of her mind - a scout younger than she who had the awful habit of getting himself into pickled predicaments more often than any one man should. He was many a cause for harsher drills from the commander on the occasional days of his irate temperament if the rumors from the barrack-grown grapevine held any truth. He stood tall next to the throne, hands visibly shaking before he clasped them behind his back. He cleared his throat, and Rachael took it as her cue - the rest of her fellow guardsmen straightened and saluted simultaneously (and noisily), pushing the attention of the nobles present towards him. He saluted similarly.

“To all attending,” he began, though his voice wavered slightly, “I now present Skyhold’s finest: Herald of Andraste, advocate of mages and templars, pinnacle of peace and goodwill, sealer of the Breach and slayer of the Elder One, the Inquisitor!”

A murmur swelled up from the crowd as the door opened again, revealing the Inquisition’s own outwardly proclaimed monarch. Many of the higher-ranked nobility curtseyed or saluted as you eased your way into the room like a rivulet of warmed honey, trickling down the stairs and melting into the crowd seamlessly. The diplomats were the first to receive you, giving you warm smiles and polite words, dipping at the waist, or grasping your hand to press chaste kisses to your glove-adorned knuckles. You returned the expressions effortlessly, causing some to laugh and others to puff their chests with pride. Rachael watched with more than a little awe and admiration, mouth agape - Sigmund didn’t seem quite as enchanted, though his sparkling eyes betrayed his unspoken fealty.

You were wrapped in layers of crimson velvet with adornments of golden silk, diamonds glittering like constellations in your hair, lining the curve of your ears, and dipping down onto the plummeting neckline of your gown. Pale, creamy fur coiled around the nape of your neck and looped back over your hips in a half-cloak, concealing the slits baring your legs to end halfway up your thighs. Your shoes were delicate little furred things, obviously meant for comfort hidden between the curtains of fabric concealing them from most eyes. You certainly caught the eye of nearly every man and woman within the room, blissfully (likely purposefully) ignorant to their lingering stares and appraising murmurings. It was a daring choice of clothing, certainly, especially in the height of winter despite even the ample sources of fire and heat - but the unspoken effect was clearly achieved. Rachael wondered if it was the Enchantress’ doing, as she was the most notable of fashion-forward authorities in the keep.

An unknowing observer might think your choice of color and textile paid more Fereldan homage than Orlesian and would cause ripples because of an assumed preference; and while that could be considered a half-truth, it wasn’t necessarily the case. Any semi-permanent resident of Skyhold was aware of that fact.

Rachael smothered a smile as the ambassador and spymaster descended the staircase behind you, sweeping into the hall in blooming shades of rich cerulean and bloody plum respectively. They giggled and gasped as they followed your suit, descending into the crowd; they soon departed from each other’s arms to mingle with their colleagues and acquaintances. Next, the scout called out for the seeker and the commander, and Rachael couldn’t help the corners of her mouth tugging upward at the sight of him walking alongside the grim-faced Nevarran.

Commander Rutherford’s apparel was plainly the inspiration for yours (or vice versa, she could suppose very easily) - complimentary, deeper shades to your colors of choice clung to his tall, broad frame, bringing out the rosy tone of his skin and making his hair stand out as proper precious metal in the firelight. He was crisply shaven, an ornamental sword strapped to his hip (likely a remnant of the results of the incident at the Winter Palace, if she recalled correctly from barrack gossip), and his strides were long and confident though he looked reticent to speak to the numerous flocks of women eager for his attention. Seeker Cassandra did not leave his side, however, dissuading many with a sour glower and dismissive, curt words. He spoke sparingly to some, though Rachael did not miss the way his eyes cut over in your direction, already close to the gaping entryway, more frequently than what any normal man would deem casual.

Rachael giggled on the inside. The two of you could not be any less subtle if you’d honestly tried.

“Thought they were trying to keep it under wraps?” Sigmund groused, taking another sip of wine.

Rachael hummed, her blood fizzing through her veins like champagne. “Perhaps this is their solution to be rid of any wayward proposals of marriage - a girl at the Herald’s Rest told me that Josephine’s attendant delivered a palate of letters to the commander, and yet a whole crate of them to the Inquisitor!” She followed the commander’s lingering gaze, just in time to see you curtsy deeply to Queen Anora and offer your hand. Rachael’s brows shot up as the monarch accepted with a pleased smile, people quickly dissipating to the sides of the hall to make room. Other duos materialized instantaneously, and the music slowed to an early death before shifting over into a lively beat reminiscent of village songs she could remember stumbling along to on occasions of this very same holiday. You were all polite smiles and perfect posture, dancing with the queen of Ferelden as if it were a completely ordinary thing to do. Rachael let out a soft, wistful sigh. “I do wonder what it would be like to walk in her shoes for a day - just to be able to enjoy the luxuries and opportunities. I’d gamble she never worries about making it to the bathhouse before the water’s sullied for the night.”

“She’s got it worse than the lot of us,” Sigmund responded grimly. “Think  _ you _ could dance with the queen and not trip on the carpet?”

Her face flushed in chastenment. “Maker, no. I’d surely be the blundered end to the Inquisition’s diplomatic efforts.”

“Ser Acker,” came a rumbling note from her right side.

She turned and saluted upon spotting her fellow templar, a short and wide man still in full plate. “Ser Wickham.”

“I’m here by order of Barris,” he said. He jerked his head towards the feast tables. “Go eat and enjoy the party.”

“Thank you.” She saluted again, dipping at the waist, and took her mug in one hand and beckoned Sigmund with the other. They skirted around the edge of the great hall, slipping past all the murmuring, richly dressed attendants towards the rear of the hall where the servants and the rest of the guard were seated. It was notably more comfortable and welcoming there, with less of an emphasis to stand so straight that it made her spine ache. Her stomach growled loudly, and she fetched a plate immediately.

Roast and gravy and bread with a lard and pickle spread and potatoes with carrots were soon piled high upon the polished wood (the nobles got the porcelain dishes). Her mouth watered as she looked mournfully at the rest of the foods just waiting to be devoured, but Sigmund tugged at her arm.

“C’mon, you can always get seconds,” he groused.

She let him lead her to a table tucked into the corner by the massive fireplace, where the dwarven author Tethras was spinning yarn to a crowd of Orlesians eager to hear any gossip they could. The tale, a recollection of one of the battles the Inquisitor had with the dragon in the Hinterlands, was so ludicrous Rachael snorted, but she had to admit that he had no lack of talent in making it entertaining. Evidently, your small party of himself, the lady seeker, and an elven apostate had barely managed to walk away with your lives, but she knew that you’d had support from the forward camp you’d established in the ravine near the valley where she’d been brooding. The archers had boasted about all sinking their arrows into the dragon’s neck, and the warriors had complained about having to roll around to dodge the spat fire and tail swings. A rogue had ended up stepped on when coming in on the flank, luckily resulting in only a broken leg and dented armor.

“He’s said he’ll write a book about the Inquisition,” Sigmund told Rachael in a low tone, drawing her attention back to him. “I bumped into him in the library a few weeks ago. It sounded as though he’s already working on it.”

Sigmund, she knew, was a closet lover of books of all kinds. She wondered how expensive the novel would be once published, as famous as the Inquisition was.

“It’ll be an odd tale, for certain,” she remarked, tearing the small loaf of bread and dipping it into the lard spread. She gestured at him with it. “I doubt anyone outside of it will believe it all.”

“It’ll be  _ historical _ ,” he corrected. “And we’ll be part of it, even if we aren’t seen in the pages. It doesn’t matter if people believe it.”

That did bring a certain satisfaction, she had to admit. “True. But who would want to read about your incessant whining?”

Sigmund rolled his eyes and stabbed his fork into the slice of heavily seasoned pork loin on his comparatively small plate.

Her brows furrowed. “Is that enough? You won’t get hungry later?”

He met her gaze with a coy, playful one of his own. He quirked a brow. “If I’m hungry later, I’ll just have to see that I thoroughly enjoy dessert.”

Her brows shot halfway up her forehead, but she didn’t get the chance to even struggle for a response. The song ended, and a round of cheers and applause rang out through the hall. She saw the queen curtsey and you meet it, smiling pleasantly and speaking something Rachael couldn’t hear. You lead Anora out of the dancing ring, barely having had space once she walked off before none other than Gaspard approached from the opposite side. Rachael frowned, spying a knot form between your brows; your answering curtsey was deep and stiff but gracious, and your accepting smile was tighter at the corners. Gaspard guided you back onto the floor. An Orlesian waltz began, and many of his countrymen followed suit, whirling and twirling in their dazzling array of colors and fabrics.

“You couldn’t pay me enough money to dance with an Orlesian noble,” Rachael grumbled, munching her bread in agitation. “Much less royalty. You never know when you’ll get a dagger to the back.”

Sigmund swallowed the pork and sipped his wine, following the movement with his eyes. “I wouldn’t dance at all, given the choice. It only seems to stir up trouble.”

“Not all dancing is bad, though,” she reminded him, thinking of the jigs that were surely still going on outside. “It’s fun when you let it be.”

“Not when you’re born with two left feet,” he mumbled, and Rachael couldn’t help the tender little smile that overtook her face.

“You’ve improved a lot,” she said quietly.

“You just say that to comfort me.”

“Nonsense. Have you ever known me to tell a lie?”

“To the damned Inquisitor, yes.”

Rachael flushed, still mortified upon remembering that whole ordeal. She dropped her head into her hands. “I was hoping you’d forget about that.”

“How could I? It wound up with you stuck in my side for the foreseeable future.”

“Ah, so I’m nothing more than a thorn anymore, hmm? I see.”

“Sweet to the eye, sharper still to the touch,” he quipped. “A rose wouldn’t have beauty were it not for its thorns.”

She blinked. Was he...surely he wasn’t trying to give her backhanded compliments out here in the open? Had he imbibed that much wine?

“Sigmund…” she began, uncertain, glancing around to ensure no one was visibly eavesdropping upon them. “...surely you don’t mean that.”

He studied her intensely for a moment, unreadable, seeming to wobble on the edge of a blade, then, “But you  _ are _ beautiful - and tonight, you’re...a tease, really, you’re such a Maker-damned tease, and-”

She covered his mouth quickly, face burning, again making certain no one was looking directly at them. “Mundy, thank you, I appreciate it, but - not here!”

He fixated upon her face with watery eyes that remind her of a mabari pup begging for affection, and it melted her Fereldan heart a bit on the inside.

“Later,” she promised him in a hushed whisper, removing her hand from his lips and patting him on the cheek, trying not to smile at the flush that brightened the apples of his cheeks.

The Orlesian waltz drew to a staccato-plucked end, drawing applause from the crowd for the show. Rachael’s eyes were drawn back to the Inquisitor and her company, spying the hand Gaspard was reticent to remove from the small of her back. There was a tightness around her eyes as she eased back a step, but the Orlesian monarch was quick to follow. Rachael’s skin began to crawl, seeing the listless lean to his stride, the heavy-handed gestures he made as though he was drowsy.

Ah. He had partaken of liquid courage, then.

“He’s being rather insistent,” Rachael heard another woman off to her left murmur, a tall, lean girl dressed in plain but well-tailored clothes. The pin of the Inquisitor’s sigil on her breast spoke of her being your chief maid. She was speaking to a young man dressed as a stableboy, who stood between her and the mass of people around them like a protective wall. His eyes were kind as he murmured unintelligently back in a soothing tone.

“She’s about to whap him,” Sigmund mumbled, paying only half attention, still as rapt with his food as he was. “I’ve seen her handle drunkards in the Rest before.”

Rachael frowned, knowing how unwanted advances by someone out of their right mind never felt as flattering as the one intoxicated thought. She’d dealt with many a soldier during her tenure in Skyhold, before being elevated to the rank of a templar proper. And even as Gaspard reached out to grasp your wrist, tipping his head down to smile near your ear, the hair on the back of her neck stood up - though it seemed she wasn’t the only one to notice the deepening panic in your eyes. A mass of red and gold and fur passed her peripheral, sure-footed and bold and radiating ire in the sharpness of leather soles striking the carpeted floor.

The lion of Skyhold was on a hunt for blood.

Rachael covered her smile as discreetly as she could manage, watching the Commander descend upon the duo with a barely concealed scowl of scarcely restrained rage. He was a hair shorter than Gaspard, but broader in the shoulders he pushed back in defiance. His chin was high, eyes blazing, as he spoke in a low, thunderous rumble to which only distance avalanches in the surrounding mountainside could compare - and the relief in your expression was as palpable as the coarse mug in Rachael’s hand.

Gaspard had the dignity to give the newest contender - and victor - a tight smile, making a tactical retreat any man of love and war would recognize as wise. The Commander turned to you, expression softening minutely, opening his mouth to speak - but you grasped his arm and shook your head with a grateful smile. You spoke, the corner of your mouth curling into a playful smile. Rachael watched the man’s ears turn beet red, then as he bowed at the waist and reached for your hand with a grin so boyish it made Rachael’s heart warm both at the familiarity of the gesture and the novelty of seeing it on Commander Rutherford’s face, of all.

You stepped back and gave him a deeper, lingering, flourishing courtesy than you’d given any noble or monarch before, and a soft, muted murmur rose up in the onlookers around them, ranging from shock to glee to mourning. It was an unspoken thing, a victory won without ever a sword being raised. The suspicions and murmurs of many were confirmed in one subtle gesture that most would miss, but would travel the entire surface of Thedas within days.

(Rachael was certain there were at least three young Orlesian women who had burst into tears almost instantaneously.)

“As subtle and privy as a windowpane,” Sigmund remarked quietly.

“This is their hall,” Rachael told him softly, watching them link together and begin to dance with the new song, tender and quick, sweeping over the floor. A round of cheers and whistles rang out from numerous members of the Inquisition’s ranks present. (Many of them were exchanging coin, never as subtle as they thought.) “Never mind who may see.”

The mage hummed and finished off his wine.

Off to the right, in the midst of the music and dancing and chatter that was fairly quick to resume despite the new gossip sure to arise, a muffled  _ thoom _ sounded through the heavy stone walls. The door that led to the kitchens smacked open against its frame, allowing a horde of children to flood out all squealing and dispersing into the crowd like a pack of bars. Laughter soon followed, as the vivid colored pigments soaking every last noble child to the skin were identified as a punishment for sneaking into the kitchens to disturb the cooks, if the resident Red Jenny’s presence flitting after them with a fake wooden cutlass and manic laughter was any indication.

Rachael’s laughter was deep, remembering similar pranks played in her village. “It would not truly be Satinalia without a little chaos.”

Even in the crowd, the Inquisitor and the Commander had paused to enjoy the entertainment. Their expressions were merry and bright, even as they looked at each other with mirth and something unsaid.

The festivities lasted for much of the night, the hours clinking by as the music and dancing and laughter and eating scarcely took time to pause. Many of the older nobles had already retired, but the younger ones still remained, in various states of intoxication, as they attempted to outdo each other in conversation and drink. More of the Inquisition’s people had gradually trickled in from the outside seeking supper and warmth, and the tension had eased just enough that Rachael felt she could finally relax. Several of her fellow templars and soldiers and even some of Sigmund’s mage friends ended up around their table, keeping good company until most of the higher-ups had departed to allow those wary of their watchful eyes to feel more comfortable to celebrate.

All who remained were the Ambassador still tending to her guests, the author whittling away his stories to fawning Orlesian women, and the Inquisitor and Commander reclined up on the platform with the throne, simply sitting on the steps and sharing a drink. They had eventually melted into the background, and the more ale Rachael had imbibed the less she had thought to observe them. She suspected the rest of their audience had experienced the same.

But that was a few minutes prior, before Rachael had finally elected to remove her charge from the premises, for varying reasons. The chief being he was on the verge of being too drunk to sit up without having to lean on her, and she wanted to cut him off before she reached that point as well, as it would not result well.

The least reason (of course) being he had been rubbing her thigh incessantly for the last half hour. It had finally worn her patience to its end, and she had made appropriate apologies before gripping his elbow and pulling him along with her out of the main hall. As soon as the door had closed behind them, she had scooped him up into her arms to tote him down into the bowels of Skyhold.

“If you don’t put me down, I will singe every last hair off your head, you stubborn, lyrium-marinated brute-”

“Oh, hush - I know you like it when I carry you.”

Rachael grinned at the mage’s indignant huff, pausing at the underground intersection and glancing down the dim corridors to ensure their solitude. She hooked a left, rounding the corner into the great vault hall, and picked her way through the shadows towards the hidden library he had discovered a couple of weeks before. It would be quiet, and empty, and had a chair of crushed velvet and polished mahogany that could fit three people at most, let alone two. The walls were thick, the bookcases full, and she was able to pick her way inside without bumping into too much with her full silverite plate. She kicked the door shut with her booted heel, stumbling into a stack of tomes that collapsed in a heap of dust.

“Let me light a candle before you knock everything over, you barbarian,” he hissed, pawing at her pauldrons. She elected to set him down, grabbing his elbow to steady him when he wobbled dangerously and watched him with a tipsy smile as he lit the candles on the desk. She pushed him into the chair, reaching up to pull off her helmet and to loosen her gauntlets. He swallowed, cheeks rosy, eyes dark, biting his lip and reaching out to work at her sword belt with clammy, clumsy fingers. Soon, she was fumbling with her cuirass, climbing into the chair on his lap to straddle him. He shoved at her trousers in some frustration, growling under his breath, and she laughed quietly when the sound was punctuated by an echoing hiccup so violent it made him lurch against the back of the chair.

“Shush,” he grumbled. “You’re an ass.”

“An infuriatingly ravishing ass, according to my charge,” she teased, pushing the scarlet and ivory band of silk from her waist and coiling it around her hand before reaching for both of his. “It’s not exactly fair that you’ve been a damned righteous  _ tease _ all night.”

The last word left her lips as a growl, and she watched in satisfaction as a shudder wracked his lean frame. She gripped his wrists and pinned them to the back of the chair before tying them with it.

“That okay?” she murmured, paused to brush her lips against his brow. “Not too tight?”

He shook his head. “It’s fine.” He reclined back, shifting his hips into a more comfortable position. “Kiss me?”

“You’ve had too much wine,” she teased, but obliged him eagerly.

He let out a wavering groan as she settled more of her weight onto his thighs, surprisingly sturdy despite his appearance, hazy-eyed and warm-skinned, and she couldn’t help the low chuckle that spilled from her lips as he strained against his bonds and tried to press his body closer to hers.

Rachael murmured his name consolingly, tracing her lips along his jawline towards his ear, taking his lobe between her teeth and tugging until he let out a shuddering gasp. She dipped her head and sucked at the junction of his jaw and neck, feeling his rapid pulse beneath her tongue as she lapped the sting away.

“Andraste’s flaming ass,” he hissed, fists clenching and arms tensing tightly enough it made the chair creak, “get on with it before the guards come through!”

“Who’re you to tell me what to do, you naughty little mage?” she purred, nibbling down to his collarbone, tugging the neck of his robes down so she could bite where his neck met his shoulder. There was a scar there, from where a wolf had scratched him as a boy wandering out in the woods lost one night - but it was barely perceptible in broad daylight, let alone dim, flickering candlelight. She could feel the difference in texture against her lips, the memory of him telling her about it a cold winter’s night last year holed away in a shadowed corner of the Herald’s Rest. “It’s not I who’s helpless to the whims of the wine you had me drink.”

He huffed, shaky despite his attempt at haughtiness, and she began to fiddle with the glittering buttons lining the front of his robes. Her brows furrowed in concentration as her hands refused to stay steady, and she heard a loose, wispy laugh escape him. “You’re not as resilient as you think, templar,” he responded, a delicious, deep curl to his voice that caused gooseflesh to raise from the small of her back to the nape of her neck. She shivered, and he leaned forward to kiss the tip of her nose. “...You’re really pretty when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” she retorted immediately, glaring at him with no true malice behind it, finally giving up and gripping either side of the outer robe before sharply pulling in opposite directions. The buttons gave way and clattered to the floor, staccato plucks that punctuated his indignant gasp. “If  _ I _ was drunk, you’d be having to carry  _ me _ .”

“Maker help,” he wheezed, chest rising and falling rapidly, pupils blown, and she couldn’t honestly tell if he was angry or lustful. “I’d have to drag you by the ankles, with all that damned armor.”

“ _ This _ armor?” she questioned, batting her eyelashes, reaching up to unlace the leather thongs holding her mail over her chest. His eyes fixated on her fingertips, working the supple, worn laces until they released and the one shoulder dropped against her breast.

She was halfway through the other shoulder, breaths picking up in anticipation as she watched his face flush the precise moment he realized she was wearing nothing else beneath her armor save a thin, gauzy tunic, when a bump echoing from somewhere in the hall made their spines snap straight simultaneously, faces paling and breaths catching. Her heartbeat raced against the inside of her ribcage, reaching for her forgotten sword on the floor as she turned towards the door. She saw a shadow shift under the narrow crack of line shining beneath it, dark and indistinguishable, and she reached back to grip the sash binding his wrists on reflex, ready to pull it away at a wink’s notice.

Silence.

She glanced back at him, brows furrowing. He looked equally as confused.

A heavy thump made them both jump, one that made the lock rattle. She squinted, saw two slats of shadow that could’ve been feet...wait, four?

“...Maker-damned  _ tease… _ ”

Rachael’s stomach sank as cold dread poured over her like rain on the coast.

“...not the only one who insisted on showing out,” came the answering jibe, amused and lilted and likely more than a little sloshed. “...would the nobility think?”

“ _ Hang _ the nobility,” the deep, husky, masculine tone replied, straining on the consonants, “and whoever thought it would be best suited for you to wear  _ that _ dress…”

“Josie’s fault,” the feminine counterpart laughed quietly, and there was another thump and a breathless gasp when two of the shadows disappeared upward. “Leliana picked out the shoes. Just about tripped over them on the way down all those steep damned stairs.”

A low, rumbling growl followed. “Did she realize she’d be having you flouncing all her skin off to all the eyes of Thedas?”

“I didn’t tell her it was a little small,” came the impish response.

Rachael and Sigmund locked eyes, equally shaken. It couldn’t be…could it...?

Another soft gasp muffled by a thick layer of wood made her heart lurch, and a quiet moan made her skin crawl in discomfort. “Oh,  _ Cullen- _ !”

“Blighted  _ shit _ ,” Sigmund whispered fiercely, face flushing beet red.

“Ssh,” Rachel mouthed more than uttered, reaching out to press her palm over his mouth. He licked her palm with a glare, but she only turned her gaze back to the shadows looming just one wall away from themselves.

Thoughts began to race through her head, of being caught, reprimanded, demoted, suspended,  _ discharged _ \- all for accidentally catching the Herald of Andraste being walled by the commander of her forces.

“Cullen, don’t - don’t rip that!”

“What in the Maker’s bloody name am I to do with it, then?”

“It’s just...just tied, look…” A rustle of fabric precluded the rattle of the door handle, and Rachael’s heart could have stopped dead in her chest with the terror that seized her at once. “No, no, don’t-”

“Why not?” the commander demanded gruffly.

“Dorian’s been researching down here lately,” you replied in a terse, motherly tone. “If we disturb it, he’ll be sure to find out - I won’t hear the end of it for  _ months _ . Please.”

“And what of it?” was his impatient reply. “It isn’t as though we’ll sully any of his papers.”

“ _ Cullen _ ,” you scolded, sounding embarrassed.

“You think me that irresponsible?” he rumbled, voice muffled - your soft gasp overwhelmed it.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Dorian will kill you.”

“I am not afraid of him,” the commander declared, quickly hushed by you. “He will not hurt me for he likes you too much.”

“He will hurt you  _ because _ he likes me so much,” you retorted, tapering into a chuckle. A juddering, shocked moan left the commander, and Rachael felt her whole body burn in humiliation.

You laughed, and he let out a rolling growl like thunder. “You’d best pray Andraste preserves you - with every way you tease me, the less inclined I feel to see your satisfaction through, beyond mine.”

“Oh, you big bad mabari,” you cooed, “whatever will I do when you leave me to my  _ own _ devices-!”

You were interrupted, a punctuated thunk against the wood and the smack of lips indicating the commander’s growing ire and eagerness. “...You are...too damn coy when you...indulge in drink,” he panted between kisses.

“And I suspect,” you replied smugly, “that you enjoy it too much.”

He only groaned in response.

Rachael wanted death, for it would certainly be easier than to endure this punishment the Maker saw fit to bestow upon her and her flame, unmarried as they were. Truly, the example you and your commander held - it was something she had yet to consider, but she could have gone an eternity without a demonstration such as this.

“What are we going to do?” Sigmund hissed beneath her palm.

“Hush,” she answered, glancing around for possible means of escape. There were a couple of nooks and crannies they could squeeze into to hide, but it would not serve them well in proper lighting or if they moved at all.

The door latch rattled again, more urgent this time - you protested, but your words were muffled by his mouth - and Rachael panicked. She yanked the tie from Sigmund’s hands, hauled him up by the front of his uniform, and pulled him into the curve of the alcove with her. She pinned him to the bookcase, eyes straining in the dim as she relied upon her ears.

The door creaked as it opened, stumbling footsteps barely audible over the roar of blood in her ears. Someone bumped into the bookcase with a startled grunt, and she heard the commander’s heavy breathing accentuated by a soft murmur, no longer inhibited, from your lips. “You do look so pretty tonight, commander - I am fortunate the ladies of the court no longer have any chance to claim you for themselves.”

“As I am endlessly grateful for it...” he said breathlessly. A short, self-censored moan left him, and his tone turned notably tender. “...my wife.”

“My husband,” you purred in return, just as syrupy sweet. “What do you need of me?”

“You,” he replied softly, “always you.”

Rachael locked eyes with Sigmund. He looked terrified, cornered like a prey animal. She would laugh were it not for her own fear. Information not privy to their ears was the job of the Nightingale’s agents. How would the whole of Skyhold react if they knew the true details of the intimacy of yours and Cullen’s relationship? All of Thedas?

The nobility would be struck wan, for certain. 

“The scandal of it all,” Sigmund mouthed in some humor.

As tense and shaky and jumpy as she was, Rachael could not stop the snort from leaving her. Both their pairs of eyes rounded at once, his hand snapping up to clasp over her mouth - their unadulterated terror returned in a storm.

“...Cullen.”

“Hmm…?”

“Did you hear that?”

A protesting sound made him almost whine. “What are you talking about?”

Silence.

“...Did you light that candle, love?”

“I did not,” you said, muted horror in your tone. “...That isn’t your armor, either.”

“It is not,” he echoed.

Rachael met eyes with Sigmund, willing him to stay silent. He did so, praise the Maker, as shaky as his hands were.

There was a long, aching, heavy pause. 

“The cellar?” Cullen murmured.

“The cellar,” you echoed, mortification creeping into your tone.

Another rustle of fabric, a squeak of surprise, and the heavy, hasty, unbalanced track of bootsteps faded out of the room - the door rattled as it was kicked shut. Heartbeats later, there was another rattle further down the hall, followed by the metallic clank of it being closed. Rachael waited with bated breath until silence had returned for a good minute or two. Or five.

When she looked back to Sigmund, his face was a brighter red than she’d ever seen it, thunderous in shame.

“I am  _ never _ letting you tote me off to some dark, dusty room in the bowels of anywhere ever again,” he growled.

She couldn’t help the stressed, pitched giggle that lodged free from her throat, the adrenaline finally beginning to taper out as relief rushed to replace it. She backed off of him, notably less drunk than before, and began to pick up the pieces of armor she’d discarded quickly. “That’s fair. Let’s get out of here.”

He stood shakily, frowning down at the ruined front of his cloak. “The buttons…”

“I’ll buy you more,” she hissed, tucking her pieces under one arm and grabbing his with her free hand before tugging insistently. “I’ll buy you another bottle of wine if you promise we’ll never speak of this again.”

His dark, sober expression would later become a reliant source of belly laughs shared in private. “...Agreed.”

Weeks later, well after they’d exchanged their meager gifts on Satinalia morning (nursing headaches that kept them both in bed for most of the day) and the whole of Skyhold had come down from the holiday, the templar and her mage finally let peep the story to their inquisitive and all too persistent friends. They never revealed names, but did indulge that it was a rather notable couple that has interrupted the duo with a dalliance of their own. It had made the whole table erupt into raucous, buzzed laughter, causing even Cabot to hush them lest the nobles have them hung for causing a disturbance. After that, it was dismissed, and Rachael forgot about it because of her continued training and increasing responsibilities around Skyhold. Sigmund was busy helping to teach the young apprentices, and they got to see each other about every other night for third meal.

But, as certain as gossip was a vine that grew everywhere it touched, the story broke out into the barracks. From there, it spread as wildfire, from the soldiers to the rest of the templars and mages to the servants and maids and to the general populace of the keep. And, seeing as the couriers often took breaks in the great hall near the ears of their highest ranking superiors, it wasn’t long before the Inner Circle caught wind of the rumor.

From there, it was an easy process of elimination.

Rachael and Sigmund were blissfully unaware of the resulting mortification in the affected party, the flustered stutterings and profuse apologies and gentle swearing, but they suspected something must have happened because Commander Cullen’s gaze lingered on them longer than usual whenever he ran the drills for the templar-mage teams the following week. They didn’t really notice, being as they were doing their best to avoid meeting his eyes for too long at all costs.

Then  _ it _ arrived a day after that.

Rachael stepped into her quarters, as cramped but cozy as they were, and made to begin the long process of removing her armor and placing it on the stand. She made it down to her waist before, in the midst of twisting to remove her sword belt, she noticed a foreign object on her small bed, whose sheets had been inexplicably folded to perfection. The rest of her room, she noticed then, with mounting bewilderment, had been cleaned and organized, and there was a jar of fresh-cut purple hyacinth stems that  _ glowed _ in the narrow patch of sunlight coming through the slat of her window.

Murmuring in confusion and forgetting her mail leggings, she shuffled over to her bed to investigate the basket sitting atop it with an intricately folded golden bow on its handle. She lifted the left lid, peering inside, and her brows shot up. A startled laugh escaped her lips, just as hurried footsteps sounded outside her door. She turned just in time for it to be kicked open, Sigmund barging in with wild eyes and mussed hair.

Rachael gave him an amused smile. “You look like you’ve run the entire way across Skyhol…” Her eyes fell to the basket he carried in his arms, with a red bow instead. She was...stupefied. “...oh.”

“You got one, too,” he wheezed, face red. “Wine? Cheese? Crackers? Sausage?”

She couldn’t help but nod. “Stationery? Soap? Oils?”

“Maker’s breath,” the mage hissed, embarrassment just shy of dripping off of him. He sank into the chair next to her door, staring listlessly into the floor as though it would hold the answers he sought.

Rachael’s laughter was slow and quiet, but it grew to fill her belly and make her sides ache. Through her tears, she could see Sigmund struggling to retain his demeanor.

Then she noticed the note tucked just behind the bow.

Upon wiping her eyes and reading it, hiccuping with residual giggles, she stopped, brows shooting up her forehead, and smacked her hand over her mouth. Sigmund straightened, curious, and she handed it to him. She couldn’t contain herself any longer when he, too, devolved into hysterical, breathless laughter, sinking to the floor and cradling her head in her hands.

“Well, shit,” she breathed at length, cheeks hurting.

“If we are remembered for anything in Inquisition records,” Sigmund mummered, covering the lower half of his face, “it will be for interrupting the Inquisitor and the Commander and getting an  _ apology basket _ for it.”

Rachael broke into another fit, and Sigmund was soon to follow.

The wine and cheese were very, very good, they learned.

**Author's Note:**

> ‘To whom it may concern,  
> We would like to issue a formal apology for the encounter that occurred on Satinalia Eve during the festivities, seeing as the location was unwise at best and distasteful at worst. We never meant to intrude or to cause discomfort, and we elect to be more selective to avoid mishaps like this in the future.  
> We hope you do not feel as though this hinders our positions as authority figures, and we offer our thanks at your relative discretion of the matter. We also hope that whatever was heard will not be considered propaganda of any sort.  
> Again, we apologize for the mishap. It will not happen again. We hope the contents of our gift will suitably extend our regrets and mend our mistake.  
> Sincerely, with mortification,  
> Inquisitor and Commander Rutherford’


End file.
